Effects: As a free action, the battle brother can issue a challenge to one enemy who can see and hear him. The brother gains +10 WS against specified enemy (so long as no other team mates attack that enemy and the brother uses melee only). The enemy suffers -10 to attacks against anyone else and must make a Challenging (+0) test to move away from the brother. Ability ends when the target has died or has withdrawn from combat.

Solo Abilitiy: Immovable Warrior

Rank: 1

Effects: The brother gains the Sturdy trait and +10 to BS when wielding a heavy weapon and standing in cover.

Squad Mode: Damione knows all Storm Wardens Squad Mode Abilities and any Squad Mode abilities taken as part of the Oath`s made before a mission.

Background

The field of battle was a cratered smoking mess. The Storm Wardens controlled the field brilliantly. They held the forward battlements in front of the Shrine's high walls, taking the brunt of multiple, seemingly never ending waves of attacks from the heretics and traitors while the remaining loyal Imperial Guardsmen did their best to lend support from the top of the walls themselves – either directing artillery barrages or providing limited fire support. Whenever a wave charged forward, the Astartes of the Storm Wardens held fast until the last possible moment, loosing a devastating barrage of bolt shells, searing beams of heavy Las-Cannon fire, and the thick ultra fast slugs of Assault-Cannons. When the offensive inevitably broke, they used their prowess with their Rhino and Land Raider armored vehicles to counter-attack, route the heretics and finish them off with flamers, small arms and chainswords. The heretics had no chance of victory from frontal assault and they knew it. Even with the aid of foul sorcery and their mutant legions, they would break against the wall of Astartes, as so many fools before them had. The Storm Wardens main force would hold. From high up on the ridge line to the Shrine's west, Brother Damione's view was breath taking.

He and two battle-brothers were tasked by the 2nd Company Captain himself to hold the ridge. It served as one of two weak points and only routes to the rear of the mountain Shrine dedicated to Saint Furialis. It was said that Saint Furialis, with a small band of Sisters Sororitas, had defended the valley below against mutant incursion with flamer and sword, securing the off-world escape of thousands of Imperial Citizens before she was eventually over taken by the heretics and ripped apart; before she ascended to eternal glory by the Emperor's side. And now the mutant filth were back, and Brother Damione would be damned to the Warp before he saw the Shrine fall into their blasphemous hands. They had probed the ridge twice so far in small numbers, testing its weaknesses. Two bursts from his brother’s bolter’s had assured that none of the attackers made it back. He could see their bodies, or what was left of them, lying amid the rocks and dirt, blown into garbled chunks and steaming in the cool early morning air. Some wore the armor of Planetary Defense Forces and Imperial Guardsman. Some were completely naked. And worst of all, some bore the unmistakable mutations of their exposure to chaos. Damione softly whispered the chant to himself beneath his helmet as he scanned the horizon, “Suffer not the heretic, the xenos or the mutant to live.”

Movement. Behind the chunks of steaming flesh and bone, another group was coming. Based on the readouts in his visor, this group was much larger than the last. He knew immediately that this was not another probe; they were attacking the ridge in force. Flashes and mechanical death danced and sang to him from the valley below. They were attacking on all fronts. Brother Sgt. Kruh was the first to respond, tossing a frag grenade and giving orders to Brother Rattah who was shouldering his bolter and lining up his shots. Damione braced his heavy bolter and said a quick prayer to the machine spirits within both the weapon and his armor - neither of which had failed him before during battle. It was for this that he always offered them his thanks. From the oncoming numbers of mutants and heretics he picked up in his visor, he knew he would need their complete assistance. Brother Rattah had disengaged his helmet and was smiling. The tattoos covering his head, while impressive could not match Damione`s. Rattah had lined up three spare bolter magazines on a large boulder next to him and his finger was inching closer to the sensitive trigger mechanism of the ancient weapon.

As Brother Sgt. Kruh's frag grenade tumbled through the air toward the enemy, Damione boomed over his Vox, "Not one step back, brothers! The Emperor is behind us and we will not dirty his armor!" As the frag exploded, Damione grit his teeth inside his helm and squeezed the firing rune on the enormous weapon in his hands, unleashing Fury upon his foes.

For three days they stood and fought as wave after wave of the traitors converged upon their small ridge. With no reinforcements and no sleep, they fought. When the bolters and bolt pistols ran dry, the brothers gathered weapons and ammo from the dead, breaking off stocks and trigger guards to fit their massive anatomy. When the smoke cleared on the fourth day, the dead lay in piles in front of them, lining the ridge for hundreds of meters. The Marine's armor was pock marked and scarred with hundreds of las-burns and small arms fire, and one or two of the brothers bore the damage that only an enemy bolt weapon could inflict. But all three remained standing, out of ammo and covered in gore. Their weapons and armor had remained true, and as they were finally relieved, they could say with honor and immense pride, that not one of them had taken a single step back.

***

Brother Damione is massive even without the incredible physique enhancing qualities of his armor. Fully armored, Damione often stands a head taller than his fellow Astartes, and it is rumored that he is as tall as one of the fabled Adeptus Custodes that guard the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra. His strength is enormous and there was no question why he chose to don a Heavy Bolter when the Deathwatch called for him. It is his weapon of choice in most, if not all, combat situations. While he is comfortable with chainsword and pistol, bolter or flamer, Damione firmly believes that any foe can be overcome through sheer tenacious will, tactical expertise, and overwhelming firepower. He has yet to meet an enemy that has been the exception to this rule. This has been especially true in his encounters with various Xenos life forms and perhaps this is the reason he was requested for a vigil within the Watch.

He has a light complexion and would sport light brown hair did he not shave his head and face daily. He does so in order to display proudly the myriad of blue and white tattoos that cover his naked head, face, neck and torso. Each one a tale of bravery, enemy bested, deed done and honor brought to his Chapter and the Imperium. His eyes are ice blue and the single stud implanted into his skin above his right eyebrow shows that he is a veteran of 100 years of service within his home chapter. While proud and unswervingly rigid in his ideals of honor and duty, he has no problem debating, bantering and even joking with the brothers he is closest to. He is not afraid to share an ale and a huge smile with those he trusts most. Before battle he will often be pouring over intelligence reports on the mission to come: finding kill points, studying enemy numbers and equipment and preparing for any eventuality he may encounter. However, his honor is of utmost importance, and if it is challenged or offended, he will fight, to the death if need be, to right the wrong. Battle-brothers who have stained or attempted to stain Damione's honor have often found themselves challenged to single combat. While most of them leave without permanent reminders of their defeat, none of them make the mistake twice. And no enemy who has personally challenged Damione has ever lived to tell the tale. This pride often puts Damione at odds with non-Astartes commanders and military personnel. Few have impressed him with their ability to stand fast in the face of true terror and inevitable death, and while Damione understands his enhancements give him a drastic advantage in these situations, he still holds ordinary human beings accountable for the preservation of their own pride and dignity. With that in mind, like most Storm Wardens he is closed off and reluctant to share himself with those brothers he does not know or trust. But once his trust is attained, he is a loyal and true friend, willing to risk life and limb for those who have earned it.

Armor: Astartes Mk. 6 `Corvus` Power Armour; AP Body: 9, Head and Legs: 8, Arms: 7; +15 Autosenses.Armor Additions: Devotion Chain (+3 WP to resist fear/Cohesion Damage), Iron Skull Honors; Mk.4 Gauntlets.Power Armor History:
- Battered by War (+10 intimidate, -5 charm)
- Gauntlets of "Xirion" (Mk.4 Gauntlets, +10 WS, +5 fel w/ agents of the Imperium)Power Armor Description:Honors:
- Iron Skull Honors (This honor is recognized throughout the Imperial military as a sign of leadership distinguished in battle and may help the Battle Brother's influence when dealing with other Imperial personnel. However, a Battle Brother with this honor is always expected to lead from the front and by example, charging into the fray and being the example to their men).Movement: 5m/10m/15m/30m

Description: Compared to a normal human, Gunter is tall and hulking, more akin to an ogre than a man. But among other space marines, Gunter is slightly taller than average and almost gaunt. His dark hair hangs to shoulder length. His gray eyes are intense, while his mouth rarely betrays emotion.

Personality: Like other members of his chapter, Gunter has a burning hatred for the rogue Psykers that threaten the empire. But unlike most, he has developed a keen understanding for the way they think. This has allowed him to become a skilled interrogator. He fears that his understanding of the darkness inside those who dwell with the warp might be perverting his own mind. Gunter approaches every interaction as though it were an interrogation. He carefully considers what to say and how to say it. Outside of direct interaction, he prefers to recite litanies of battle and war. When not actively training, he spends his time fortifying his mind through meditation and relection.

Background:
The walls throbbed with the deep hum of the machine spirits contained within the bowels of the Strike Cruiser No Pity. The chaos and horror of the warp slid past the hull as the ship crossed the incomprehensible vastness of space en route to Geonide. Gunter and his fellow Adeptus Astartes had already been briefed on the situation. The planet had fallen to the sway of daemonic cultists, rogue psykers that abandoned the Emperor and his holy writ. Suffer not the unclean to live, Gunter thought to himself as he maintained his vigil. Verbally, he recited the litany of battle along with four of his battle-brothers, detailing the famous deeds of their brethren who had fought and died through millennia past helping to secure the empire and ensure the emperor’s will be done. Gunter was no stranger to battle, having fought on scores of alien worlds, facing xenos and rogue psykers too dangerous to be left to the Imperial Legions. Geonide was no different. An exterminatus had been authorized, consigning the entire world and the chaos-influenced hordes to a death by holy fire from orbit, but beforehand, Gunter and his fellow Space Marines would descend to the planet surface to locate and recover artefacts too valuable to be lost. Once their mission was complete, the Black Templars would withdraw, and leave the planet’s destruction to the Inquisition. Gunter’s reverie was momentarily broken as Castellan Wilmar entered the chapel. Gunter noticed the subtle change in the throbbing that indicated they had returned to normal space. He spoke briefly to Gunter before consulting quietly with each of his companions. Besides himself there were the twins Emeric and Freida, Johannes, a neophyte under his tutelage, and Osrik, the grizzled veteran. Gunter knew each of them better than his own mother, and truth be told, he liked them better. His mother’s greatest achievement was raising a son worthy to bear the mantle of the Black Templars – an honor that few in the Empire could claim. Castellan Wilmar finished his rounds and led the cadre in an oath. “Suffer not the unclean to live.” They shouted again in unison their battle cry, “No Pity! No Remorse! No Fear!” as they moved to the Drop Carrier.

******

Scant moments later, Gunter found himself standing on the surface of the planet, shrouded in heavy fog. His enhanced vision scanned for signs of their objective or the enemy. Jammers had blocked any effective orbital reconnaissance, and the area he now occupied was one of a handful that had received no reports from Land Speeders sent as an advance scout. Dark shapes loomed through the wispy vapor. Gunter needed no enhanced senses to notice the acrid smell of a burning vehicle ahead. While that would no doubt send a company of Imperial Guard scrambling for cover, Gunter leapt toward it. He clicked over to his companions on the Vox, but found only static. Using hand-signals he indicated the vehicle, an Imperial skimmer. As he approached his armor lit up as hundreds of needle-like projectiles rained against the plasteel and ceramite carapace. His bolt pistol was in hand and he returned fire. A bolt exploded the face of one of the cultists as his companions opened up in a semi-circle. The battle was begun. The initial ambush was quickly dispatched by the discipline and impressive firepower of the squad. But this wasn’t the end of the fight. His heightened senses alerted him to the electric whine of a plasma cannon coming online. Refusing to retreat or take cover, Gunter waited for the last moment then threw himself to the side and charged forward, crushing the gunner’s skull with a clenched fist. These cultists were well-equipped for anything shy of a space marine assault, but that was exactly what they were in for. Gunter allowed himself to enjoy the satisfaction that comes with dispatching the enemies of the Empire of Man for a brief moment, but the moment didn’t last. New enemies were approaching. They were numerous enough to pose a threat even with conventional weapons. Death in service to the Emperor was reward enough, and Gunter knew he would slaughter hordes before they brought him and his companions down. That is, until the voices. As the enemy approached Gunter could hear thousands of screaming voices babbling in his ears. His augmentations tried to filter them out and allow him to focus on just the battle noise, but with no success. The voices were not in his ear, but in his mind. He watched as one after another his companions collapsed the ground, hands clenched over their helmets. If Gunter fell now, not only would the precious gene seed he and his companions carried be lost, their mission would be a failure. As he fell to one knew he heard another voice in his mind. This one was different somehow. The other voices were a screaming cacophony of madness and insanity. This voice split through the tumultuous masses like a clear bell. There were no actual words, but he could sense meaning. The voice seemed proud of the accomplishments Gunter had made, and seemed to reassure him that things were not as bad as they might seem. Gunter briefly wondered if he were dead and was finally speaking with the Emperor, but his body was still responding. He struggled back to his feet. He was surrounded by the cultist horde, thousands of them, led by dozens of powerful rogue psykers. As they pressed close to watch his defeat and descent into madness something happened. Waves of energy swept down from seemingly nowhere, erupting across the hordes. Where the pulsating energy flowed, it left nothing but death. The gibbering voices were silenced. Gunter rushed forward over the corpses and found the vox-jammer. With a well-placed krak grenade it exploded, restoring communication to the ship.
The rest was a blur… Another squad came and helped recover the artefacts and his fallen brethren. The mission was a success. But what was the strange display of psykic energy?

Background: “To me! Heel, you curs. Armor yourself with loathing for the abomination and arm yourself with hatred. In the name of the Emperor, let no alien blight survive this day!”
The winds blew across the sand, never truly letting up, keeping a thick cloud of dust in the air at all times. The mundane humans wore cloth around their mouths and constantly waved their hands before their eyes in annoyance, as though seeking to wipe the dust from the air. The lone figure before them, hulking in his machine armor and stern in countenance did not lower himself to find bother by such a trifling thing. Had he spared any thought to it at all, he might have found himself confused by why anyone would even notice a bit of dust when a furious horde of xenos was advancing from not two kilometers away.

The mission was simple. Raise the locals to the defense of this position and lead them until the extraction arrived and the alien menace could be precision lased from orbit.

“This is it,” he roared to the mundane rabble, purposely letting his strangely auto-tuned speech drawl into Low Gothic. “The alien comes to destroy your homes, overrun your world and take your lives. You cannot bargain or plead with them. You cannot run from them. You must stand strong without breaking, until the last breath leaves your body, if needs be. Today you are the Emperor’s bolter. Be as the machine spirit to the contraption of your body. Function with repetition and precision. Do not misfire. Do not jam. Remain strong,” he howled, thumping his bolt pistol against his armor audibly. “Live and die this day for your honor!”

A single uncertain voice rose from the mass of bodies. “But, forgive me, Lord… we’re not like you. We’re not… not machines.”
The marine’s lip curled into a smile, a strange and ironic thing to see on the face of one such as himself. “Then live and die for the right to bed their alien women!” he exclaimed, turning to meet the approaching horde.
***
The battle was over. Sixty men, almost two thirds of the entire human force, lay in the sands, their bodies shredded and torn until they were no longer recognizable as human. But thirty three humans and one space marine survived to board the transport that had been pressed into service as a hot zone extraction vehicle. Considering the size of the xeno force, which stretched out past the horizon, Agamemnon Paxius was willing to call the battle a victory. These humans had fought bravely in their own way, and followed his example of piling the bodies of dead xenos before them. By the time the extraction had arrived, they’d built a wall for the ages.

“Hail Paxius,” they had cried as the transport took off, shuddering with turbulence as the air already began to ionize from an incoming las beam. “All honor to Paxius!”

“The honor belongs to the Emperor,” he demurred. “I… we only share in it.”

They did not argue further, but seemed determined to bestow whatever honor they could upon him as thanks for their lives. The flight was not long, but by the time it was done, the skilled hands of a craftsman had engraved Agamemnon Paxius’s armor with the title of VICTOR HILARIS.
Description:
To even the most casual observer, Agamemnon Paxius cannot be mistaken for anything other a disciple of the Omnissiah. Cybernetic limbs and various bits of machinery litter his body, serving functions from regulating oxygen absorption to adding extra sensory perceptions. Power supplies, capacitors and relays of every sort are hard-riveted into his black carapace, marking him to the naked eye as looking more machine than flesh. His left eye and ear have been completely replaced with cold, hard machinery. When he speaks, his voice sounds modulated, auto-tuned and wholly artificial, a fact that is seemingly at odds with his outgoing personality. His remaining eye watches everything keenly, though people often miss that due to staring at the Omnissiah brand that marks the bare flesh of his pate.
Personality:
Agamemnon Paxius, more often called “Pax” by his battle-brothers, is an oddity among the Adeptus Astartes. While many space marines are grim, taciturn individuals that would rather take a bolter round to the knee than smile, Pax is gregarious and outgoing. Thanks to a rare sense of depreciative humor, he makes friends very easily… when he isn’t fighting off those who don’t appreciate his sense of humor. He’s always ready with a joke or a swift kick in the ass for his friends.

In a fight, Pax is all business. He likes to think of himself as a natural leader and he takes his duties and those of his battle-brothers very seriously. His oaths to the Emperor to stand in the face of the enemy and to cleanse the galaxy of the corrupting alien taint guide his hands in battle and his oaths to the Omnissiah to be the machine that never breaks down guide his life.

Description: Indigo eyes and icy white, facial hair and skin. Lots of facial hair. So much, it makes the bare spots, grisled with scar tissue all the more noticeable. It is clear he is from the stormy, seldom-sunlit world of Fenrisian wolves and the harsh reality that not all survive past their adolescence. Of average height but with extraordinarily long limbs he has, at times, been gravely mistaken for a gaunt and weak target, until his display of leveraged strength and physical coordination keeps others hesitant at least and cut down, at most.

Personality: Equal parts boisterous and solemn depending on the situation, the simplicity and expressiveness of his words frequently stick in the craw of even his closest brothers. They know, however, that he is one the fiercest and unyeilding marines. As all Space Wolves, he has an seemingly innate disdain for and disrespect of the psychic arts. Getting him started on the Inquisition, requires care as it is grudge-filled reminder of the assault on the Asaheim continent during the Months of Shame. As quickly as he his to engage, he can just as rapidly laugh off slights, real or imagined. As a Battle Brother, Yngvar knows he is and relishes being, the tip of the spear.

Description:
Sister Aisha stands just under seven feet. With her helmet on she appears as any other marine would. Her armor is pitch black with Deathwatch emblems on both pauldrons. Under the armor and helmet one can find a young woman, though little can be said to distingush her gender aside from a cleave instead of a point between her legs.
Sister Aisha, like many of the sisters, keeps her head shaved. Her face is plain although one may argue its merit if they happened to see her in prayer. Her eyes are very green and quite striking compared on her pale skin.

Personality:
Unlike most marines entering the Deathwatch, Aisha has had little exposure to those outside her chapter of
Sisters and the commanders. Aisha seeks only to bring honor to the Emperor through her mission. She may be reclusive from her team if only to find guidance in her mission from the Emperor through prayer. Quiet though she may be, she is completely loyal to her team and the mission. She will drain every drop of her blood to bring glory and honor the
Emperor's legacy.

Despite her reclusive and single-minded demeanor she does have a weakness for puns and a complete inability to use them appropriately.

Spoiler: Highlight to view

Power Armor Abilities:
Servo-Augmented Musculature: +20 Strength
Auto-Senses: Dark Sight, Immune to Photon Flash and Stun Grenades; Called Shots are Half Actions; +10 to Sight and Hearing Awareness tests (total of +20 w/ Heightened Senses).
Built-in Vox Link.
Built-in Mag Boots.
Nutrient Recycling: Can operate for 2 weeks without resupply.
Recoil Suppression: May fire basic weapons one-handed without penalty.
Size: Hulking (Black Carapace negates bonus for enemies to attack).
Poor Manual Dexterity: Delicate tasks suffer -10 penalty unless using equipment designed for Space Marines. Osmotic Gill Life Sustainer: Armor is environmentally sealed when your helmet is attached.Space Marine Abilities:
Secondary Heart/Ossmodula/Biscopea/Haemastamen: You gain the Unnatural Strength and Toughness Traits.
Larraman’s Organ: You do not suffer from Blood Loss.
Catalepsean Node: You suffer no penalties to Perceptionbased Tests when awake for long periods of time.
Preomnor: You gain +20 to Toughness Tests against ingested poisons.
Omophagea: You may gain a Skill or Skill Group by devouring a portion of an enemy.
Multi-Lung: You may re-roll any failed Toughness Test for drowning or asphyxiation. In addition, you gain a +30 to Toughness Tests made to resist gases, and may re-roll failed results.
Occulube and Lyman’s Ear: You gain the Heightened Senses (Sight and Hearing) Talents, +10 to relevant Awareness Tests.
Sus-an Membrane:You may enter suspended animation.
Oolotic Kidney:You may re-roll any failed Toughness Test ro resist poisons and toxins, including attacks with the Toxic Quality.
Neuroglottis:You may detect any poison or toxin by taste with a successful Awareness Test. You gain a +10 to Tracking Tests against a target you have tasted.
Mucranoid: You may re-roll any failed Toughness Tests caused by temperature extremes.
Betcher’s Gland:You may spit acid as a ranged weapon with the following profile:
Range: 3m; Damage: 1d5; Pen 4; Toxic. If you hit your target by 3 or more degrees of success, you have blinded him for 1d5 Rounds.
Progenoids: These may be retrieved with a successful Medicae Test.
Black Carapace: While wearing Power Armour, enemies do not gain a bonus to hit you due to your size.

MK8 “ERRANT” ARMOUR
Only one new Mark of power armour has emerged in the long millennia since the Horus Heresy, a clear demonstration
of how much progress and innovation have stagnated. “Errant” armour is a development on the Mk7 design, mainly addressing some of the flaws and weak points of that type. It adds extra plating on the torso to further protect the energy cabling, and a high gorget, or collar, covering the weak point at the neck join (the only drawback is that older helmets are not easily compatible). It has had limited deployment thus far, so tends to be reserved for veteran Space Marines as a sign of rank.

Mk8 armour features a higher collar, or gorget, that gives enhanced protection to the neck and head. Every time an attack hits the wearer’s head, roll a d10. On a result of 8, 9 or 10, the attack counts as hitting the body instead.

Thus far, Mk8 suits have mostly been issued to Sergeants and higher-ranking officers, and as such their appearance has
taken on an air of authority amongst the Adeptus Astartes. The wearer of a suit of Errant Armour gains +5 to Command
Tests.

Description: A burly, hardened and somewhat more robust physique than other space marines, who generally looks normal…until he turns his head. An obvious member of the Iron Hands chapter, due to his exceptionally crafted bionic hand and other replacements for his original weak flesh, Sarlock has taken the term “the flesh is weak” to a new extreme by replacing scraps of his skin with metal, infusing wires within his veins and generally looking terrifying to all who view his two red cybernetic eyes, and his ever-present full-bodied toothy grin, which is indeed a mouth full of metal, sharpened to fine points. His voice is eerily higher-pitched than many Space Marines, and he generally provides his own commentary to situations despite what others may think. He believes Ferrus Manus, the original Iron Hands Primarch, to still remain somewhere among the stars, and has made a personal goal to bring him back and make the daemon Fulgrim pay for his betrayal.
Personality: Those of pure flesh and blood are weak in the eyes of Sarlock. He tends to be an outcast in most situations, and was not liked but extremely respected and honored in the Iron Hands chapter. Not the most likeable, with his twisted humanity and strange humor, he prefers to watch things from afar, coldly calculating and discerning truth in situations. His emotions remain hidden underneath all the machinery, corrupted by his metal flesh. His cold, critical manner of others brings him into many arguments and fist-fights with his chapter members and other humanoids. You could never tell what he was feeling, because he never has it written on his face.
Additional Information:
“It’s been too long” Sarlock supposed, thinking to himself at the back of his Iron Hands Devastator squad, as they trudged through the urban wasteland that spanned for miles ahead. His and 4 other squads had been tracking a band of Emperor’s Children for the past few weeks, rumored to have returned to their home world of Chemos, despite the lack of life after the Inquisition. Countless times before, he had torn the Children asunder and he was itching for more.
Sarlock ground his teeth together before bringing out his wide-mouthed smile, glittering in the moonlit night. Pelles, the new initiate, stared up at him through his own cybernetic eyes, a deep frown punctuating the lines of his face.
“Sarlock, why is it you always have that manic grin on your face?”
Sarlock stopped and slung his heavy flamer up into an attack position.
“You really shouldn’t be paying attention to me, Pelles. The fun is just about to start.”
At that moment, a squad of Emperor’s Children burst through the wall of an abandoned ruin, stones slapping the ground as they pushed forward. Sarlock shoved the muscular Pelles down to protect the new initiate and donned his flamer across the surprised Pelles’ back.
“Glad you are useful for something.”
The flamer tore into the chaos marines and lit them ablaze in a glorious display of mayhem and destruction. They must have been expecting to take the squad by surprise. It would be the last mistake ever for them all. The other members of the squad lit the marines up with bolter fire until the majority of them were unrecognizable, just like Sarlock had hoped. Sarlock stopped his flamer, and shoved the initiate to his feet. He pulled Pelles in close and whispered into his ear.
“Don’t you ever disappoint me like that again.” His metal teeth screeched to a halt and he shoved Pelles away from him, trudging over to the fried bodies of the chaos space marines.
One was still squirming around, half charred and moving his eyes from side to side quickly, surveying the scene about him, thinking of ways to escape. Sarlock approached him and placed a foot on his chest.
“Where is Lucius?”
The chaos marine spit blood from his mouth as he looked into the eyes of Sarlock, a smile forming on his lips. From the smile came a small laughter that grew and grew into a maniacally twisted howling.
Sarlock sighed and then put a single bolter round into his head.

Talents:- Arms Master (Use ranged weapons that you have no training in at -10 instead of -20)- Berserk Charge (Gain +20 to weapon skill on a charge)- Blade Master (Reroll a missed attack once per round with any blade)- Bulging Biceps- Combat Master (Enemies gain no bonus for outnumbering you in melee)- Counter Attack- Die Hard (Roll twice to avoid death)- Fearless (Immune to the effects of fear and pinning; must pass a WP test to withdraw from a fight)- Furious Assault (Second attack at same bonuses after successful All Out Attack)- Hard Target (When you charge or run all enemies take a -20 to their ballistic test)- Hardy (When removing damage you are always considered "lightly wounded")- Hatred Ork, Cults, Psykers (+10 to all WS and BS tests)- Hip Shooting (Move at full speed and make a normal pistol attack)- Iron Jaw (May take a toughness check to shake off the "stunned" effect)- Jaded (Never gain insanity points from ordinary horrors)- Leap Up (Stand up as a free action)- Light Sleeper (Counts as awake even when asleep)- Mental Fortress (Psykers make willpower test when targeting you with a power. If failed, psyker takes 1D10 damage +1 damage per your willpower bonus. Damage is impact damage aimed at the head and bypasses all armor)- Nerves of Steel- Quick Draw (Draw weapon as free action)- Resistance: Psychic powers (+10 to resist psychic powers)- Step Aside- Street Fighting (With knives or hand to hand all critical damage has a +2 damage bonus)- Strong Minded (Reroll all failed willpower tests against psychic powers that effect the mind)- Swift Attack (May make two melee attacks in a turn as a full action)- True Grit (Whenever you suffer critical damage, half the results. Rounding up)Weapon Training:Pistol: Bolt, Las, Primitive, SpecialMelee: Chain, Power, PrimitiveBasic: Basic, Bolt, Las, Special

Description:
Rustin stands 6 feet tall. Powerful shoulders and arms accompany a hard, lean build. His movements fueled by a quickness and grace that could only be acquired through years of physical training and experience. His bare arms are exposed, covered in various tattoos ranging from intricate artwork, to a variety of crude gang, military and tribal ink-work.
Handsome with a certain roguish charm, his piercing green eyes stare back at you, accompanied by his trademark smirk. "Scruffy" in every sense of the word, his wild reddish brown hair is parted to each side. His face always covered in a beard of stubble.

Loud, Brash, cocky, and a dark sense of humor. A born rebel, and fierce warrior, Rustin is reminiscent of the high seas swashbucklers of ancient Terra. His fast speech, and thick accent often make him difficult to understand.